I've been two-timing PeterDeWolf.com with a cute little California girl named LAist.com
There are some things that PeterDeWolf.com just wouldn't do for me. I'll spare you all the details, but it involved a Wonder Woman costume and a badminton raquet. I'm only human.
- March 2006
- April 2006
- May 2006
- June 2006
- July 2006
- August 2006
- September 2006
- October 2006
- November 2006
- December 2006
- January 2007
- February 2007
- March 2007
- April 2007
- May 2007
- June 2007
- July 2007
- August 2007
- September 2007
- October 2007
- November 2007
- December 2007
- January 2008
- February 2008
- March 2008
- April 2008
posted by Peter at 1:27 PM
Friday, July 28, 2006
The ACN got her own special little tricycle today!
Dig her little bike helmet! It's the same as her grandpa's hardhat.
She can haul bum over rocks and everything. Steering is a work in progress. But, she could not be more excited.
Dig her little bike helmet! It's the same as her grandpa's hardhat.
She can haul bum over rocks and everything. Steering is a work in progress. But, she could not be more excited.
Labels: ACN
Thursday, July 27, 2006
In my post yesterday, I touched on growing up in a small town. It started me thinking about other ways in which it affected me. Two things immediately came to mind: music and dating.
Because I grew up in a town with essentially one radio station, my exposure to good music was limited. (A radio station that switched to FM and changed it's name and call numbers a decade ago and still calls itself "The NEW Hawk.")
We gained access to Much Music (like a Canadian version of MTV, except with music videos and junk) at some point. But, it was mostly top 40 stuff. Anything else was on at strange times, when young people were out "dating." More on that later...
I didn't hear a single song by The Cure until my first year at university. Crazy, but true. My goth-ish roomie had a bunch of CDs by bands with names I had heard, but whose music I was not familar with.
My roomie also had to have his stomach pumped three times frosh week. (I actually think it may have been more, but I remember three for sure.) He later tried to OD on pills before Xmas. Did I mention that roommates were assigned and not chosen?
We got along fairly well - except for the time that I told him, "I will dwarf toss your ass out the fucking window if you wake me up again at 4:00 am to tell me you are taking my orange juice" - so he was cool with me listening to his CDs. And, uhm, we were only on the third floor.
Even now I'll find these cool-assed songs that I'd never heard in my life. I only recently discovered The Replacements.
There is a silver lining though, to this not being exposed to music thing. It is now very exciting to stumble upon something awesome for the first time. It's like Marco Polo discovering... a McDonald's.
That made sense in my head.
So, when I got to university, I had a lot of musical catching up to do. I also didn't fully comprehend this ritual called "da-ting."
At this time, people in my town didn't really "date." Sure, a few people asked someone to go out to dinner, but they were very much the exception rather than the rule.
For the most part, people hooked up because of set-ups, drinking, drunken set-ups, revenge because of other people's drunken hook-ups, and a lack of good radio stations.
During our teen years, it mostly broke down like this:
1) You like someone. (Possibly a cheerleader who is a year older than you.)
2) You mention it to your friends.
3) You, or your friends, mention it to their friends.
4) You wait for some kind of feedback from their friends.
5) If negative, you remind your friends that he/she isn't that hot anyway.
If positive, you ask them to dance at some kind of event and start kissing during the first slow song. (Most likely "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" from DIRTY DANCING. You know, hypothetically speaking.)
Done and done.
It was a decent system. It worked well. But, it kind of left you ill-equipped for real world dating.
And, to be honest, that system seemed to be a lot of work for me at that time. I liked no effort plans. I fine-tuned it to:
1) Find someone you like and hang around them.
2) Be adorable.
Less effort, but also didn't teach a dude about asking women out and whatnot.
My system was a little hit and miss throughout university. I had a long-term girlfriend at one point. Hooked up with friends of friends at other points. Kissed strangers here and there.
Speaking of kissing strangers, one of my favourite moments in university happened one night when a roomie kissed a girl in the line-up to get into a bar. When they got inside, one of them went to use the bathroom and they never met up again. When my buddy reported the story later that night, a female friend of ours was horrified. She didn't know what to make of it at all. Then she uttered the much repeated, "But... if you kiss her, she's yours" line. I realize that it is only funny to those of us that were there, but it completely slayed me. She was so serious. Like the kissing girl had broken some kind of code. This female friend of ours eventually became a doctor. Oddly not a sex therapist though, despite her sage-like hook-up wisdom.
Eventually in my final year at university I started figuring things out. I met a girl that I had an insane crush on. (Sweet, blonde, aerobics instructor in her spare time.) But, our timing was crap. She was involved with someone. Then I was involved with someone. Finally after Xmas, we were both single and chatting one night after leaving a bar. Then I did it...
I asked her to go to a movie the next week.
She smiled and said, "Yes, of course."
I walked home that night very excited, and thinking, "Dude, that was pretty easy."
Three days later I became deathly ill and had to leave school.
On my miserable ride back home, "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" started playing on the radio.
Fucking DIRTY DANCING.
Because I grew up in a town with essentially one radio station, my exposure to good music was limited. (A radio station that switched to FM and changed it's name and call numbers a decade ago and still calls itself "The NEW Hawk.")
We gained access to Much Music (like a Canadian version of MTV, except with music videos and junk) at some point. But, it was mostly top 40 stuff. Anything else was on at strange times, when young people were out "dating." More on that later...
I didn't hear a single song by The Cure until my first year at university. Crazy, but true. My goth-ish roomie had a bunch of CDs by bands with names I had heard, but whose music I was not familar with.
My roomie also had to have his stomach pumped three times frosh week. (I actually think it may have been more, but I remember three for sure.) He later tried to OD on pills before Xmas. Did I mention that roommates were assigned and not chosen?
We got along fairly well - except for the time that I told him, "I will dwarf toss your ass out the fucking window if you wake me up again at 4:00 am to tell me you are taking my orange juice" - so he was cool with me listening to his CDs. And, uhm, we were only on the third floor.
Even now I'll find these cool-assed songs that I'd never heard in my life. I only recently discovered The Replacements.
There is a silver lining though, to this not being exposed to music thing. It is now very exciting to stumble upon something awesome for the first time. It's like Marco Polo discovering... a McDonald's.
That made sense in my head.
So, when I got to university, I had a lot of musical catching up to do. I also didn't fully comprehend this ritual called "da-ting."
At this time, people in my town didn't really "date." Sure, a few people asked someone to go out to dinner, but they were very much the exception rather than the rule.
For the most part, people hooked up because of set-ups, drinking, drunken set-ups, revenge because of other people's drunken hook-ups, and a lack of good radio stations.
During our teen years, it mostly broke down like this:
1) You like someone. (Possibly a cheerleader who is a year older than you.)
2) You mention it to your friends.
3) You, or your friends, mention it to their friends.
4) You wait for some kind of feedback from their friends.
5) If negative, you remind your friends that he/she isn't that hot anyway.
If positive, you ask them to dance at some kind of event and start kissing during the first slow song. (Most likely "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" from DIRTY DANCING. You know, hypothetically speaking.)
Done and done.
It was a decent system. It worked well. But, it kind of left you ill-equipped for real world dating.
And, to be honest, that system seemed to be a lot of work for me at that time. I liked no effort plans. I fine-tuned it to:
1) Find someone you like and hang around them.
2) Be adorable.
Less effort, but also didn't teach a dude about asking women out and whatnot.
My system was a little hit and miss throughout university. I had a long-term girlfriend at one point. Hooked up with friends of friends at other points. Kissed strangers here and there.
Speaking of kissing strangers, one of my favourite moments in university happened one night when a roomie kissed a girl in the line-up to get into a bar. When they got inside, one of them went to use the bathroom and they never met up again. When my buddy reported the story later that night, a female friend of ours was horrified. She didn't know what to make of it at all. Then she uttered the much repeated, "But... if you kiss her, she's yours" line. I realize that it is only funny to those of us that were there, but it completely slayed me. She was so serious. Like the kissing girl had broken some kind of code. This female friend of ours eventually became a doctor. Oddly not a sex therapist though, despite her sage-like hook-up wisdom.
Eventually in my final year at university I started figuring things out. I met a girl that I had an insane crush on. (Sweet, blonde, aerobics instructor in her spare time.) But, our timing was crap. She was involved with someone. Then I was involved with someone. Finally after Xmas, we were both single and chatting one night after leaving a bar. Then I did it...
I asked her to go to a movie the next week.
She smiled and said, "Yes, of course."
I walked home that night very excited, and thinking, "Dude, that was pretty easy."
Three days later I became deathly ill and had to leave school.
On my miserable ride back home, "(I've Had) The Time of My Life" started playing on the radio.
Fucking DIRTY DANCING.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
In what will come as a surprise to, well, no one at all, Lance Bass of 'NSYC has come out.
I mean, did you not see 2001's seminal classic "On The Line?" He had no interest in
Emmanuelle Chriqui. (Has there ever been a non-hot Emmanuelle?) That was clear. It was like watching old episodes of "The Brady Bunch." We now know why there was no real sexual chemistry between Mr. & Mrs. Brady. If Florence Henderson can't put the pop in your weasel... I mean, mrrrrroooowwwwrrrrr.
This news is right up there with the shocking admissions of Ellen and Rosie O'Donnell. And finding out that water is wet.
I'd be more surprised - and, frankly, amused - if one of The Village People came out as straight.
Preferrably the cowboy.
In this day and age, I still find it shocking when people actually care. Especially people who don't yet partake in earlybird dinners.
Even in my small town, things are much better than they used to be. I remember in my youth, hearing about someone having a gay relative. There'd be whispers, I tells ya.
Then I went to the gay-friendliest university around. My first year there, during Gay Pride week, the school newspaper had a picture of a dude going down on another dude on the front page.
That'll culture-shock the smalltown right out of you.
Actually, during frosh week, some male friends and I went to visit a guy we had gone to high school with. We were in his room chatting when his roomie came in. We'd never met the guy before and he entered without saying a word. He locked the door behind him. He then stared each one of us down for an uncomfortably long period of time. Finally, he bellowed, "There is going to be a violent homosexual rape in here tonight, boys!"
He was kidding.
Probably.
On last night's "Big Brother," Marcellus admitted to his mancrush on Kaysar. He referred to him as his "Iraqi Peach." As far as I can tell, such a thing doesn't really exist. Date plams are actually the most popular fruit in Iraq. (I am opting to ignore the urge to include one of the four "date palm" jokes I've come up with.) Yes, these are the kinds of things I look up when in front of the computer.
Can you imagine if Kaysar reciprocated his feelings?
A black gay guy marrying an Iraqi dude. The U.S. would completely implode.
And you can bet that couple would NEVER get a table at Denny's.
I mean, did you not see 2001's seminal classic "On The Line?" He had no interest in
Emmanuelle Chriqui. (Has there ever been a non-hot Emmanuelle?) That was clear. It was like watching old episodes of "The Brady Bunch." We now know why there was no real sexual chemistry between Mr. & Mrs. Brady. If Florence Henderson can't put the pop in your weasel... I mean, mrrrrroooowwwwrrrrr.This news is right up there with the shocking admissions of Ellen and Rosie O'Donnell. And finding out that water is wet.
I'd be more surprised - and, frankly, amused - if one of The Village People came out as straight.
Preferrably the cowboy.
In this day and age, I still find it shocking when people actually care. Especially people who don't yet partake in earlybird dinners.
Even in my small town, things are much better than they used to be. I remember in my youth, hearing about someone having a gay relative. There'd be whispers, I tells ya.
Then I went to the gay-friendliest university around. My first year there, during Gay Pride week, the school newspaper had a picture of a dude going down on another dude on the front page.
That'll culture-shock the smalltown right out of you.
Actually, during frosh week, some male friends and I went to visit a guy we had gone to high school with. We were in his room chatting when his roomie came in. We'd never met the guy before and he entered without saying a word. He locked the door behind him. He then stared each one of us down for an uncomfortably long period of time. Finally, he bellowed, "There is going to be a violent homosexual rape in here tonight, boys!"
He was kidding.
Probably.
On last night's "Big Brother," Marcellus admitted to his mancrush on Kaysar. He referred to him as his "Iraqi Peach." As far as I can tell, such a thing doesn't really exist. Date plams are actually the most popular fruit in Iraq. (I am opting to ignore the urge to include one of the four "date palm" jokes I've come up with.) Yes, these are the kinds of things I look up when in front of the computer.
Can you imagine if Kaysar reciprocated his feelings?
A black gay guy marrying an Iraqi dude. The U.S. would completely implode.
And you can bet that couple would NEVER get a table at Denny's.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
It might as well be me.
Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" is freakin' terrible.
Yes, I hear the collective gasps. I just don't care. It is bru-friggin'-tal.
Someone, somewhere along the way decided it was a classic and everyone else was too confused by it to argue.
It is completely unreadable. I got through 3/4 of it.
Seriously... what the fuck is that?
It reads like the ramblings of that drunk guy you see at every party. You know the one? He is just that much too drunk to interact with the others. And, if you let your guard down, he corners you outside the bathroom and tells you about how he is suing the lottery corporation because he hasn't won it yet.
I met an old drunk guy one night who told me, "You know that Connie Chung? She's a nice piece of ass." But, that was interesting at least. (And, let's be honest, not completely inaccurate.)
I really have better things to do with my time than read "On The Road." I mean, it's "best friend teen week" on Wheel of Fortune.
I feel better getting this off my chest.
Next time tune in so I can tell you exactly what I think of Newton's "Third Law."
I'll show you an equal but opposite reaction, prick.
Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" is freakin' terrible.
Yes, I hear the collective gasps. I just don't care. It is bru-friggin'-tal.
Someone, somewhere along the way decided it was a classic and everyone else was too confused by it to argue.
It is completely unreadable. I got through 3/4 of it.
Somewhat younger than Lester Young, also from KC, that gloomy, saintly goof in whom the history of jazz was wrapped; for when he held his horn high and horizontal from his mouth he blew the greatest; and as his hair grew longer and he got lazier and stretched-out, his horn came down halfway; till it finally fell all the way and today as he wears his thick-soled shoes so that he can't feel the sidewalks of life his horn is held weakly against his chest, and he blows cool and easy getout phrases.
Seriously... what the fuck is that?
It reads like the ramblings of that drunk guy you see at every party. You know the one? He is just that much too drunk to interact with the others. And, if you let your guard down, he corners you outside the bathroom and tells you about how he is suing the lottery corporation because he hasn't won it yet.
I met an old drunk guy one night who told me, "You know that Connie Chung? She's a nice piece of ass." But, that was interesting at least. (And, let's be honest, not completely inaccurate.)
I really have better things to do with my time than read "On The Road." I mean, it's "best friend teen week" on Wheel of Fortune.
I feel better getting this off my chest.
Next time tune in so I can tell you exactly what I think of Newton's "Third Law."
I'll show you an equal but opposite reaction, prick.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Yeah, it's true. I am getting ready to order a new PC.
No, I'm not "replacing" you, per se.
I am sure it does feel that way, but things just aren't working anymore.
I put a lot of time and effort into our relationship. I have upgraded every part the was possible over the years.
Don't compare yourself to the new PC. Don't do that.
It's apples and oranges.
It's a saying. Apples and --
No, I'm not getting a Mac.
At least I didn't use you to shop for her online...
Can't you focus on the good times? We've written screenplays, a kids book, and all kinds of other horseshit together. And you've stored and edited my favourite photos ever.
The relationships between men and machines often don't last forever. Heck, you've seen Stephen King's "Maximum Overdrive!"
No, it was Emilio Estevez.
Yes, I'm sure.
We are getting off topic. I just want to thank you for all your years of loyal service. You have helped me accomplish things and meet cool people. I'll always appreciate you for that.
Come on. Can't we just take the high road on this?
Fine! I want my most recent draft of the paintball screenplay and the Dido CD back.
I am holding it for a friend.
Yes I am.
Don't you judge me.
It really doesn't have to be this way.
Wow... You write to your mother with that font??
No, I'm not "replacing" you, per se.
I am sure it does feel that way, but things just aren't working anymore.
I put a lot of time and effort into our relationship. I have upgraded every part the was possible over the years.
Don't compare yourself to the new PC. Don't do that.
It's apples and oranges.
It's a saying. Apples and --
No, I'm not getting a Mac.
At least I didn't use you to shop for her online...
Can't you focus on the good times? We've written screenplays, a kids book, and all kinds of other horseshit together. And you've stored and edited my favourite photos ever.
The relationships between men and machines often don't last forever. Heck, you've seen Stephen King's "Maximum Overdrive!"
No, it was Emilio Estevez.
Yes, I'm sure.
We are getting off topic. I just want to thank you for all your years of loyal service. You have helped me accomplish things and meet cool people. I'll always appreciate you for that.
Come on. Can't we just take the high road on this?
Fine! I want my most recent draft of the paintball screenplay and the Dido CD back.
I am holding it for a friend.
Yes I am.
Don't you judge me.
It really doesn't have to be this way.
Wow... You write to your mother with that font??
Friday, July 21, 2006
A few months back, I started writing a novel - somewhat inspired by the lovely and talented Caprice Crane - and things went swimmingly well at first. But, then I turned into Slack J. O'Slackery Jr. and things have been moving much slower.
So, I figured that if I mention it in here, and paste in a random little excerpt, maybe that will shame me into getting back to work.
I guess we'll find out.
*****
Maybe I should tell you a little more about Pat. Perhaps that would give you some insight into why he is how he is when it comes to women. Perhaps not, but this is my story, so…
Pat is in his early to mid 30s. He’s got longish scruffy hair and a goatee on his face. An actual goatee. Old school. No mustache. Technically, when you add a mustache it becomes a Van Dyck. Which, as far as I can tell, has nothing to do with Dick Van Dyke, Jerry Van Dyke, Dick Van Patten, Mario Van Peebles, or Patton Oswalt.
He kind of looks like Dan Cortese circa 1993. Don’t know who Dan Cortese is? I envy you.
Pat is wearing old Levi’s 501 jeans. You know, the kind that your girlfriend claims are “out of style,” but you prefer to think of them as “classic.” He is sporting a pair of Dr. Marten shoes, which he had most likely stolen from a passed-out bum. And, the pièce de résistance for completing the ensemble, he is wearing a black Motörhead t-shirt with white writing.
Pat loves Motörhead. His senior yearbook quote was, “If I move in next door to you, your lawn will die.”
He wasn’t just a fashion victim; Pat comes from a sketchy background. His mother relied on the kindness of strangers… in the backseats of cars parked in dark alleys.
He always told himself that his father was a traveling rock star that his mother had met in the early 70s. Although it’s a secret that is very unlikely to be unlocked, the odds are that his dad was a carney. And not a high-class, roller coaster-running carney. Probably the one that combed food out of the bearded lady’s, well, beard.
He grew up with more “uncles” than a kid at a polygamist family reunion. Or something.
He learned things from each of these men. And not usually good things. There were truck drivers, drug dealers, former NBA star Shawn Kemp, gangsters and a lawyer. Not surprisingly, he learned the worst things from the lawyer.
Pat was in the third grade when he got kicked out of school for the first time. He sold some older kids a couple of joints – which they later discovered was oregano wrapped in Zig Zags. They were someplace south of impressed with him. He caught a beating from them, but had already spent their money. He figured it was worth it.
In the sixth grade, Pat developed a crush on a girl named April Tunstill. April lived on the right side of the tracks, while Pat would have had to win the lottery to qualify to live on the wrong side. Granted, there weren’t any actual “tracks” per se. There was a small river that inexplicably bubbled as if full of soap and turned fluorescent green every spring.
Someone should probably look into that.
It was this crush that persuaded Pat to attend his first – and last – school dance. He put on his cleanest Motörhead t-shirt, spiked his hair, and went out to win the heart of the fair April. Since this was his first crush, Pat had no idea how stressful heart-winning would turn out to be. He stood in the corner most of the night. And, other than taking a few breaks for quick smokes in the boy’s room, he kept his eyes on April.
Finally “Careless Whisper” started playing. It was closing in on midnight, so Pat knew it was now or never. His stomach said “Never! Get me the fuck out of here!” but Pat powered through. As George Michael tricked everyone in attendance into thinking that he was singing about a girl, Pat approached April from behind.
He cleared his throat and caught the attention of one of April’s friends. She giggled and indicated for April to turn around. She did. Pat smiled the biggest smile of his life.
“W-would you like to dance?”
“I would,” she replied.
Pat had never felt like that before in his life. It was either happiness or an ulcer.
He took a few steps out towards the center of the gym floor, before looking back over his shoulder to see if April was following him. She wasn’t. He walked back to her.
“I thought –“
“I wouldn’t dance with you if you were Theo Huxtable!” She giggled with her friends before they all turned and went to the bathroom together.
Pat just stood there. He was heartbroken. Though he soon found out that “heartbroken” was just a short hop from “completely enraged.”
He vowed right then and there to make her pay for this.
And he did. Repeatedly.
It started with little steps, like writing things about her on the bathroom walls. He wasn’t sure how to spell “hermaphrodite,” but he figured that he got his point across.
He started telling people that she stuffed her bra – and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it was true. He’d call her parents and tell them all kinds of lies about what she was doing at school and at her friends’ homes. This was before caller ID - a veritable golden age for stalkers and the vengeful heartbroken.
In the 9th grade, he broke into her gym locker and defecated in her shoe. Clearly “the high road” wasn’t a route he had considered. In the 10th grade, he stuffed the “Winter Carnival Queen” ballot box and made sure that her biggest rival won. He gave her the 11th grade off, but only to soften her up for what would come next.
When senior year arrived, he knew he had one more shot before she took off for college. So, he got his mother to seduce April’s quarterback boyfriend, Matt. As an added bonus, Matt contracted herpes. Then, on spring break, Matt shared the burning, burning love with April. On one of his routine locker break-ins, Pat found April’s herpes medication. Then he defecated in her shoe again. Old habits. Finally, he stood outside their prom and told everyone entering about April’s “condition.” She ended up crying and going home soon after she arrived. And, other than slashing her car tires a few years later, Pat felt that payback had been delivered.
Somehow between his Mom’s town pumpedness, April’s mean trick, and his subsequent 6 years of revenge torture, Pat developed an unhealthy view of women. Fancy that. And this is, if you recall, how I got off on this tangent.
I wish I could tell you that there won’t be more tangents. Sadly, I can’t. But, I really doubt that there’ll be any more mentions of crapping in shoes. So, that’s something, right? Back to my story…
*****
So, I figured that if I mention it in here, and paste in a random little excerpt, maybe that will shame me into getting back to work.
I guess we'll find out.
*****
Maybe I should tell you a little more about Pat. Perhaps that would give you some insight into why he is how he is when it comes to women. Perhaps not, but this is my story, so…
Pat is in his early to mid 30s. He’s got longish scruffy hair and a goatee on his face. An actual goatee. Old school. No mustache. Technically, when you add a mustache it becomes a Van Dyck. Which, as far as I can tell, has nothing to do with Dick Van Dyke, Jerry Van Dyke, Dick Van Patten, Mario Van Peebles, or Patton Oswalt.
He kind of looks like Dan Cortese circa 1993. Don’t know who Dan Cortese is? I envy you.
Pat is wearing old Levi’s 501 jeans. You know, the kind that your girlfriend claims are “out of style,” but you prefer to think of them as “classic.” He is sporting a pair of Dr. Marten shoes, which he had most likely stolen from a passed-out bum. And, the pièce de résistance for completing the ensemble, he is wearing a black Motörhead t-shirt with white writing.
Pat loves Motörhead. His senior yearbook quote was, “If I move in next door to you, your lawn will die.”
He wasn’t just a fashion victim; Pat comes from a sketchy background. His mother relied on the kindness of strangers… in the backseats of cars parked in dark alleys.
He always told himself that his father was a traveling rock star that his mother had met in the early 70s. Although it’s a secret that is very unlikely to be unlocked, the odds are that his dad was a carney. And not a high-class, roller coaster-running carney. Probably the one that combed food out of the bearded lady’s, well, beard.
He grew up with more “uncles” than a kid at a polygamist family reunion. Or something.
He learned things from each of these men. And not usually good things. There were truck drivers, drug dealers, former NBA star Shawn Kemp, gangsters and a lawyer. Not surprisingly, he learned the worst things from the lawyer.
Pat was in the third grade when he got kicked out of school for the first time. He sold some older kids a couple of joints – which they later discovered was oregano wrapped in Zig Zags. They were someplace south of impressed with him. He caught a beating from them, but had already spent their money. He figured it was worth it.
In the sixth grade, Pat developed a crush on a girl named April Tunstill. April lived on the right side of the tracks, while Pat would have had to win the lottery to qualify to live on the wrong side. Granted, there weren’t any actual “tracks” per se. There was a small river that inexplicably bubbled as if full of soap and turned fluorescent green every spring.
Someone should probably look into that.
It was this crush that persuaded Pat to attend his first – and last – school dance. He put on his cleanest Motörhead t-shirt, spiked his hair, and went out to win the heart of the fair April. Since this was his first crush, Pat had no idea how stressful heart-winning would turn out to be. He stood in the corner most of the night. And, other than taking a few breaks for quick smokes in the boy’s room, he kept his eyes on April.
Finally “Careless Whisper” started playing. It was closing in on midnight, so Pat knew it was now or never. His stomach said “Never! Get me the fuck out of here!” but Pat powered through. As George Michael tricked everyone in attendance into thinking that he was singing about a girl, Pat approached April from behind.
He cleared his throat and caught the attention of one of April’s friends. She giggled and indicated for April to turn around. She did. Pat smiled the biggest smile of his life.
“W-would you like to dance?”
“I would,” she replied.
Pat had never felt like that before in his life. It was either happiness or an ulcer.
He took a few steps out towards the center of the gym floor, before looking back over his shoulder to see if April was following him. She wasn’t. He walked back to her.
“I thought –“
“I wouldn’t dance with you if you were Theo Huxtable!” She giggled with her friends before they all turned and went to the bathroom together.
Pat just stood there. He was heartbroken. Though he soon found out that “heartbroken” was just a short hop from “completely enraged.”
He vowed right then and there to make her pay for this.
And he did. Repeatedly.
It started with little steps, like writing things about her on the bathroom walls. He wasn’t sure how to spell “hermaphrodite,” but he figured that he got his point across.
He started telling people that she stuffed her bra – and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it was true. He’d call her parents and tell them all kinds of lies about what she was doing at school and at her friends’ homes. This was before caller ID - a veritable golden age for stalkers and the vengeful heartbroken.
In the 9th grade, he broke into her gym locker and defecated in her shoe. Clearly “the high road” wasn’t a route he had considered. In the 10th grade, he stuffed the “Winter Carnival Queen” ballot box and made sure that her biggest rival won. He gave her the 11th grade off, but only to soften her up for what would come next.
When senior year arrived, he knew he had one more shot before she took off for college. So, he got his mother to seduce April’s quarterback boyfriend, Matt. As an added bonus, Matt contracted herpes. Then, on spring break, Matt shared the burning, burning love with April. On one of his routine locker break-ins, Pat found April’s herpes medication. Then he defecated in her shoe again. Old habits. Finally, he stood outside their prom and told everyone entering about April’s “condition.” She ended up crying and going home soon after she arrived. And, other than slashing her car tires a few years later, Pat felt that payback had been delivered.
Somehow between his Mom’s town pumpedness, April’s mean trick, and his subsequent 6 years of revenge torture, Pat developed an unhealthy view of women. Fancy that. And this is, if you recall, how I got off on this tangent.
I wish I could tell you that there won’t be more tangents. Sadly, I can’t. But, I really doubt that there’ll be any more mentions of crapping in shoes. So, that’s something, right? Back to my story…
*****
Thursday, July 20, 2006
I joke in here frequently about things that "embarrass" me. Typically they are stories from my past. Usually they are silly. But, there is something that really does embarrass me...
I don't understand the Middle East.
And I don't mean in the way that learned scholars debate the finer points of such a complex situation. I quite honestly don't have a clue what is going on.
And that really embarrasses me.
While I enjoy perpetuating my whole goofball/slacker/fratboyesque facade - and it would take a blog post or six to fully delve into that- I very much do not like not knowing things. Typically when I don't understand how something works, I grab the manual and sit down and figure it out. (Very unmanly, eh?)
I am somewhat educated. I'm not unintellgient. I really should have a firmer grasp on the essentials at the very least.
But, I am very black or white. I don't like ambiguity.
Even my favourite movies typically have a good vs. evil theme. I love Westerns. I've watched dozens. I've written a western screenplay. In westerns, even though there are bad guys that act good and vice versa, at the end of the day it is good vs. evil. You know who you are rooting for.
I played a lot of team sports growing up, so I am also a fan of "us vs. them." I love that. I feed off it. I like having an "enemy."
In the middle east, I'd probably need a war crimes trial to tell me who to root against. And, really, all wars are crimes. (Don't be impressed, I heard that on 'The West Wing' a couple nights ago.)
I don't know anyone from Beirut. I know... probably five Jewish people.
If I had close friends or family in the region, then I would have a "side." I know it sounds odd, but that would give me a starting point for educating myself. I would learn all I could about my "side." Then, so I could properly support and defend them, I'd have to learn about the other side.
Actually I am not even sure how many sides there are over there.
And where do you get unbiased facts?
Western media - like western medicine - seems much more interested in the symptoms than the causes.
That doesn't work for me. I need to know the core issues to be able to try to wrap my mind around why people act the way that they do.
With the exception of fanatics of any kind, I find it hard to lump all "terrorists" together. (Am I really about to defend terrorists?) Some forms of terrorism, to me, seem like a short trip down from "guerilla warfare." Which is, as history has taught us, a staple of revolutions. We don't have to look back very far in North American history to learn more about that topic.
I am not defending any actions that kill civilians - or soldiers for that matter - but it just adds to the ambiguity. Which I hate.
I don't know anything about the Middle East.
That embarrasses me.
But, I am certainly going to try to become better informed.
I don't understand the Middle East.
And I don't mean in the way that learned scholars debate the finer points of such a complex situation. I quite honestly don't have a clue what is going on.
And that really embarrasses me.
While I enjoy perpetuating my whole goofball/slacker/fratboyesque facade - and it would take a blog post or six to fully delve into that- I very much do not like not knowing things. Typically when I don't understand how something works, I grab the manual and sit down and figure it out. (Very unmanly, eh?)
I am somewhat educated. I'm not unintellgient. I really should have a firmer grasp on the essentials at the very least.
But, I am very black or white. I don't like ambiguity.
Even my favourite movies typically have a good vs. evil theme. I love Westerns. I've watched dozens. I've written a western screenplay. In westerns, even though there are bad guys that act good and vice versa, at the end of the day it is good vs. evil. You know who you are rooting for.
I played a lot of team sports growing up, so I am also a fan of "us vs. them." I love that. I feed off it. I like having an "enemy."
In the middle east, I'd probably need a war crimes trial to tell me who to root against. And, really, all wars are crimes. (Don't be impressed, I heard that on 'The West Wing' a couple nights ago.)
I don't know anyone from Beirut. I know... probably five Jewish people.
If I had close friends or family in the region, then I would have a "side." I know it sounds odd, but that would give me a starting point for educating myself. I would learn all I could about my "side." Then, so I could properly support and defend them, I'd have to learn about the other side.
Actually I am not even sure how many sides there are over there.
And where do you get unbiased facts?
Western media - like western medicine - seems much more interested in the symptoms than the causes.
That doesn't work for me. I need to know the core issues to be able to try to wrap my mind around why people act the way that they do.
With the exception of fanatics of any kind, I find it hard to lump all "terrorists" together. (Am I really about to defend terrorists?) Some forms of terrorism, to me, seem like a short trip down from "guerilla warfare." Which is, as history has taught us, a staple of revolutions. We don't have to look back very far in North American history to learn more about that topic.
I am not defending any actions that kill civilians - or soldiers for that matter - but it just adds to the ambiguity. Which I hate.
I don't know anything about the Middle East.
That embarrasses me.
But, I am certainly going to try to become better informed.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Recently a friend asked me what the point of PeterDeWolf.com is. "Do you make money with it?"
To which I replied, "Uhm... No. I just like to write stuff..."
Eloquent, no?
But, I really do enjoy writing "stuff" in here. Even on days where everything else I work on turns to poop, if I managed to write a post here, I am in a good mood.
It doesn't matter if it's a short story, a silly confession, or even a silly video confession.
Plus, the more I post, the more traffic I get. And I can't deny that I enjoy seeing traffic numbers going up.
So, in the spirit of posting more, and of amusing myself, I am going to write a short story. But, I don't know what it is going to be about yet. So, for the next little while I am going to surf the net to try to find inspiration.
[Peter wanders off.]
Okay, I'm back. I bet it feels like no time has elapsed at all for you. It's maaagic.
While checking out Tony Pierce dot com, I saw a picture that put a silly idea in my noggin. (I'll tell you what it was later.)
Be warned that this story could indeed reach new and impressive levels of suckitude. Or I could also lose interest and end it abrubtly.
This is reality blogging, folks.
Here we go...
**********
The year is 2031.
We are in the great city of Phoenix, Arizona, here on the pacific coast.
Other than a Soylent Green shortage, and Tom Cruise's kid's cult on the loose, things are going pretty well.
People are listening to Guns n' Roses' "Chinese Democracy" - which was just released on Tuesday - and celebrating the 5th anniversary of peace in the middle east. The world's one true superpower, Canada, finally stepped in and stopped the violence. Prime Minster Michel Samson's "Won't you just fuck off and get along?" speech is repeated daily in classrooms by children worldwide.
Five blocks east of the mansion where Brad Pitt and Dakota Fanning got married is an even more important building. (No disrespect to "Brakota.")
This building is the...
Sony Court of Crimes Against Nature, Good Taste, Humour, Common Sense & Other Junk.
(Everything has a corporate sponsor right now. The museum next door - showing a series of 'Lauren Graham wearing cute girl glasses' oil paintings - is sponsored by Comcast. Heck, even me, your humble story teller, is sponsored by Cialis. Not that I need it. I don't. Stop judging me. Asshole.)
This court has dealt with such problematic issues as giant lower back tattoos on chicks, those weird dark round earrings on dudes and Ryan Seacrest's career.
But, the trial that is currently going on is the biggest and most important one yet.
Every generation is left to clean up the mess of past generations. It is a story as old as time. This generation is no different.
U.S. President Lindsay Lohan has come here personally to make sure that everything goes well. And she is, like, super-pissed to be missing spring break in Branson, Missouri. (She and Yakov Smirnov were recently spotted making out on a table in a local nightspot.)
This trial is for an insidious form of evil.
Something that should have been stopped decades ago.
"Family Guy" is on trial. (With creator Seth MacFarlane as co-defendant.)
A show that was once rightfully cancelled, but somehow wormed it's way back onto TVs, has recently been proven to be chock full of subliminal messages. From the relatively benign - "Wear trucker hats!" To the downright chilling - "Vote Republican!"
Studies have also proven that it causes a general dumbening amongst people who have watched it. Even having only watched it a few times - while despising every moment - can rob you of mental prowsess, and even make it difficult to figure out a good ending to a silly blog short story. Or so it is rumoured.
The trial has been going on for months, but is expected to end soon. Then hopefully we can put all of this behind us.
If you have watched the show and are worried that you are at risk, don't stress... You're totally screwed already.
But, on the plus side, you have a built in excuse for various stupid things you've done.
Stayed with a guy that was no damn good? Blame Family Guy.
Learned any kind of dance for a specific song? Blame Family Guy.
Wore, bought, watched or listened to anything with the name Jennifer Lopez (or Jennifer Lopez Jr.) attached to it? Bla -- No, wait. That's all on you. People sometimes have to take responsibility for their own actions.
You sicken me.
(Oh, this is the photo that inspired me.)
To which I replied, "Uhm... No. I just like to write stuff..."
Eloquent, no?
But, I really do enjoy writing "stuff" in here. Even on days where everything else I work on turns to poop, if I managed to write a post here, I am in a good mood.
It doesn't matter if it's a short story, a silly confession, or even a silly video confession.
Plus, the more I post, the more traffic I get. And I can't deny that I enjoy seeing traffic numbers going up.
So, in the spirit of posting more, and of amusing myself, I am going to write a short story. But, I don't know what it is going to be about yet. So, for the next little while I am going to surf the net to try to find inspiration.
[Peter wanders off.]
Okay, I'm back. I bet it feels like no time has elapsed at all for you. It's maaagic.
While checking out Tony Pierce dot com, I saw a picture that put a silly idea in my noggin. (I'll tell you what it was later.)
Be warned that this story could indeed reach new and impressive levels of suckitude. Or I could also lose interest and end it abrubtly.
This is reality blogging, folks.
Here we go...
**********
The year is 2031.
We are in the great city of Phoenix, Arizona, here on the pacific coast.
Other than a Soylent Green shortage, and Tom Cruise's kid's cult on the loose, things are going pretty well.
People are listening to Guns n' Roses' "Chinese Democracy" - which was just released on Tuesday - and celebrating the 5th anniversary of peace in the middle east. The world's one true superpower, Canada, finally stepped in and stopped the violence. Prime Minster Michel Samson's "Won't you just fuck off and get along?" speech is repeated daily in classrooms by children worldwide.
Five blocks east of the mansion where Brad Pitt and Dakota Fanning got married is an even more important building. (No disrespect to "Brakota.")
This building is the...
Sony Court of Crimes Against Nature, Good Taste, Humour, Common Sense & Other Junk.
(Everything has a corporate sponsor right now. The museum next door - showing a series of 'Lauren Graham wearing cute girl glasses' oil paintings - is sponsored by Comcast. Heck, even me, your humble story teller, is sponsored by Cialis. Not that I need it. I don't. Stop judging me. Asshole.)
This court has dealt with such problematic issues as giant lower back tattoos on chicks, those weird dark round earrings on dudes and Ryan Seacrest's career.
But, the trial that is currently going on is the biggest and most important one yet.
Every generation is left to clean up the mess of past generations. It is a story as old as time. This generation is no different.
U.S. President Lindsay Lohan has come here personally to make sure that everything goes well. And she is, like, super-pissed to be missing spring break in Branson, Missouri. (She and Yakov Smirnov were recently spotted making out on a table in a local nightspot.)
This trial is for an insidious form of evil.
Something that should have been stopped decades ago.
"Family Guy" is on trial. (With creator Seth MacFarlane as co-defendant.)
A show that was once rightfully cancelled, but somehow wormed it's way back onto TVs, has recently been proven to be chock full of subliminal messages. From the relatively benign - "Wear trucker hats!" To the downright chilling - "Vote Republican!"
Studies have also proven that it causes a general dumbening amongst people who have watched it. Even having only watched it a few times - while despising every moment - can rob you of mental prowsess, and even make it difficult to figure out a good ending to a silly blog short story. Or so it is rumoured.
The trial has been going on for months, but is expected to end soon. Then hopefully we can put all of this behind us.
If you have watched the show and are worried that you are at risk, don't stress... You're totally screwed already.
But, on the plus side, you have a built in excuse for various stupid things you've done.
Stayed with a guy that was no damn good? Blame Family Guy.
Learned any kind of dance for a specific song? Blame Family Guy.
Wore, bought, watched or listened to anything with the name Jennifer Lopez (or Jennifer Lopez Jr.) attached to it? Bla -- No, wait. That's all on you. People sometimes have to take responsibility for their own actions.
You sicken me.
(Oh, this is the photo that inspired me.)
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Wow. It's been a few days since I've posted, eh? I've been busy chilling with the ACN. It was as delightful as always.
I've also been much chagrined by the booting off of Nancy Silverman from 'Canadian Idol.' I mean, she worked so hard... we voted... and now...
I'm going to need a moment.
*sniffle*
Okay, I'm cool now.
(Here is Nancy in week #1 and week #2.)
I think, boys and girls, that this is going to be another post where I admit something embarassing. I am not sure why I enjoy doing that. But, in the spirit of "I played E.T." and "I'm a big girl," here we go...
When I was in the 6th grade, I was in a Dungeon's & Dragons "club."
Let that sink in for a moment.
My memory of that time - and of last week - is pretty much of the sketchy. I do recall that there were a few of my friends, and then some high school guys.
It didn't take too many orc battles for me to realize that these older dudes weren't the coolest posse around these parts. I don't really remember the older guys very clearly. There was one dude that we called "Enos the penis." Though I don't think his name was Enos. He'd threaten us with ass-kickings.
And then there was...
The dungeon master.
Now this dude was a character. He frequently walked around town wearing a purple cape. (Not that another colour of cape would make it better.) And, as far as I know, he was never Frank Costanza's lawyer.
I hung out with the dungeon master's younger brother, that's what got me involved.
Though I kind of didn't like the little brother, now that I think about it. He was little, but angry and agressive. He was the first child of divorce that I had ever met. In those days, in this Catholic community, people stayed married. And drank heavily.
I am not sure if that is why Broken Homey was such a pain in the ass, but at least once a week I felt an urge to punch him in the face. I never did because, 1) he was three apples tall. And B) My father's "use your words" talk when I was a kid actually stuck with me.
[Cue meanderings...]
I am not sure what my parents did, but I'll be damned if a lot of it didn't work. I still remember all the speeches my Dad gave me. And, for the most part, I followed his advice. With the exception of his sex talk - "wear a condom and don't date girls from Louisdale" - it was all pretty much good stuff.
"Any job worth doing is worth doing right."
"I REALLY don't like liars or thieves."
etc.
My parents kind of used the old "good cop/bad cop" routine. My mother was the spoiler, and my dad was the ass-kicker. Yet, and I didn't realize it until I was in my 20s, he never really did any ass-kicking. But, the threat of it was a great motivator. My Dad is a big guy. And, as a kid, you believed that your ass could easily be kicked if you were a little bastard. And I think that is the key to good parenting. Because, let's face it, given my genes, I could have easily become a little bastard.
Back to the club...
Our dungeon master was easily angered. He did not like it when during every single game his little bro would randomly say "There is no honour amongst thieves." Seriously, every time we played. DM didn't like it at all when I'd change the words to "Puff the Magic Dragon." If memory serves I'd sing "Puff the magic dragon, lived on cocaine.." Actually, I think I also used to change the words to a Milli Vanilla song to "Blame it on cocaine..." So, apparently I was heavily influenced by Weird Al and Colombian marching powder.
I used to enrage DM, and I think he may have kicked me out of the club because of it, by asking whenever we encountered a new group of creatures if they had any prostitutes with them. "Before I throw my 20-sided die and attack with my cross-bow, might any dwarf whores get injured in the battle. I wouldn't like that. " Yes, I was in the 6th grade. Explains some things, doesn't it?
I was never good at naming my characters. "Uhm... Peterzilla. Elf thief and protector of the whores."
I was a bad D&D player.
The family of DM and little bro moved away when we were in high school. I didn't think about them much, but while I was at university in "the YHZ" (this happens when you have been a part-time travel agent and a Snoop fan) I met up with little bro in a downtown bar.
He came out of nowhere and put his arm around me. He still looked like Steve Buscemi, only now he was wearing Peter Bogdanovich's glasses. The first words that loudly came out of his mouth were...
"My girlfriend had an abortion today. I'm buying!!"
I still don't know what to do with that.
I later heard that the dungeon master was working at a 24-hour gas station in the YHZ. One night he was robbed and hit over the head with a tire iron. Seems so unnecessary. He wasn't a big guy, so I can't imagine him putting up a fight. I am not sure how he is doing now.
I guess there really is no honour amongst thieves.
I've also been much chagrined by the booting off of Nancy Silverman from 'Canadian Idol.' I mean, she worked so hard... we voted... and now...
I'm going to need a moment.
*sniffle*
Okay, I'm cool now.
(Here is Nancy in week #1 and week #2.)
I think, boys and girls, that this is going to be another post where I admit something embarassing. I am not sure why I enjoy doing that. But, in the spirit of "I played E.T." and "I'm a big girl," here we go...
When I was in the 6th grade, I was in a Dungeon's & Dragons "club."
Let that sink in for a moment.
My memory of that time - and of last week - is pretty much of the sketchy. I do recall that there were a few of my friends, and then some high school guys.
It didn't take too many orc battles for me to realize that these older dudes weren't the coolest posse around these parts. I don't really remember the older guys very clearly. There was one dude that we called "Enos the penis." Though I don't think his name was Enos. He'd threaten us with ass-kickings.
And then there was...
The dungeon master.
Now this dude was a character. He frequently walked around town wearing a purple cape. (Not that another colour of cape would make it better.) And, as far as I know, he was never Frank Costanza's lawyer.
I hung out with the dungeon master's younger brother, that's what got me involved.
Though I kind of didn't like the little brother, now that I think about it. He was little, but angry and agressive. He was the first child of divorce that I had ever met. In those days, in this Catholic community, people stayed married. And drank heavily.
I am not sure if that is why Broken Homey was such a pain in the ass, but at least once a week I felt an urge to punch him in the face. I never did because, 1) he was three apples tall. And B) My father's "use your words" talk when I was a kid actually stuck with me.
[Cue meanderings...]
I am not sure what my parents did, but I'll be damned if a lot of it didn't work. I still remember all the speeches my Dad gave me. And, for the most part, I followed his advice. With the exception of his sex talk - "wear a condom and don't date girls from Louisdale" - it was all pretty much good stuff.
"Any job worth doing is worth doing right."
"I REALLY don't like liars or thieves."
etc.
My parents kind of used the old "good cop/bad cop" routine. My mother was the spoiler, and my dad was the ass-kicker. Yet, and I didn't realize it until I was in my 20s, he never really did any ass-kicking. But, the threat of it was a great motivator. My Dad is a big guy. And, as a kid, you believed that your ass could easily be kicked if you were a little bastard. And I think that is the key to good parenting. Because, let's face it, given my genes, I could have easily become a little bastard.
Back to the club...
Our dungeon master was easily angered. He did not like it when during every single game his little bro would randomly say "There is no honour amongst thieves." Seriously, every time we played. DM didn't like it at all when I'd change the words to "Puff the Magic Dragon." If memory serves I'd sing "Puff the magic dragon, lived on cocaine.." Actually, I think I also used to change the words to a Milli Vanilla song to "Blame it on cocaine..." So, apparently I was heavily influenced by Weird Al and Colombian marching powder.
I used to enrage DM, and I think he may have kicked me out of the club because of it, by asking whenever we encountered a new group of creatures if they had any prostitutes with them. "Before I throw my 20-sided die and attack with my cross-bow, might any dwarf whores get injured in the battle. I wouldn't like that. " Yes, I was in the 6th grade. Explains some things, doesn't it?
I was never good at naming my characters. "Uhm... Peterzilla. Elf thief and protector of the whores."
I was a bad D&D player.
The family of DM and little bro moved away when we were in high school. I didn't think about them much, but while I was at university in "the YHZ" (this happens when you have been a part-time travel agent and a Snoop fan) I met up with little bro in a downtown bar.
He came out of nowhere and put his arm around me. He still looked like Steve Buscemi, only now he was wearing Peter Bogdanovich's glasses. The first words that loudly came out of his mouth were...
"My girlfriend had an abortion today. I'm buying!!"
I still don't know what to do with that.
I later heard that the dungeon master was working at a 24-hour gas station in the YHZ. One night he was robbed and hit over the head with a tire iron. Seems so unnecessary. He wasn't a big guy, so I can't imagine him putting up a fight. I am not sure how he is doing now.
I guess there really is no honour amongst thieves.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
While I was singing The Doors' "L.A. Woman" in the shower this morning, a few things happened:
1) I realized that I don't actually know any women from L.A.
2) I gently weeped about Nancy Silverman being ousted from Canadian Idol.
3) I wondered if I could do a g-rated vlog from my shower.
4) I decided that I wanted to post something today. Despite having no ideas. Which typically isn't a good plan...
Then I thought of something. I could tell you about my Hasselhoffian adventures at my uncle's pool yesterday.
And I will.
Those of you that work from home know full well that people who have never done so rarely ever see this as actually working. So, it came as no surprise to me when I saw the monkey's phone # on my caller display.
You may remember the monkey from such stories as "Clap!" and "Pecker, pecker, pecker!".
I answered the phone:
me: Hello.
monkey: Hello.
(Long pause.)
monkey: Do you know why I'm calling?
me: I can probably guess.
(Shorter pause.)
monkey: What are you dooooooooing?
me: I'm a bit busy.
monkey: When will you be done?
me: Like an hour.
monkey: Then you'll come watch me in the pool. (Her grandmother doesn't like lifeguarding.)
me: Yeah --
monkey: But, my mommy will be home in an hour!
me: She'll be home in two hours.
monkey: Oh. Good point.
me: You realize that the quicker I get back to work, the quicker I'll be done.
monkey: Bye!!!
*click*
Now, I should explain that "watching" the monkey in the pool is not just simple lifeguarding. It is truly an interactive experience. And there is no way that I'll be able to properly explain it to you here. You'd have to go through it yourself. And you'd come out of it profoundly changed. We'd be like two Vietnam vets when we met. Our eyes would tell everything that needed saying.
The experience begins as soon as you arrive. Her little feet come running out of the house. She tosses a towel over one deck chair. She flings her swim goggles on the deck. She runs to the side of the pool and dips her toe in. Then she starts giggling, rips off her glasses and tosses them on the deck table. You stop them before they slide off the other side.
She runs back towards the pool at top speed and...
Takes 15 minutes before she actually gets in.
Monkey lifeguarding takes patience, dear readers.
Eventually she gets in. Then she goes "Ooooh. Oooh. Ooooh!" and starts shivering. I ask if the water is cold. And she always says, "No" while looking at me like I'm completely insane. You would think that I would learn. You would think...
As is often the case with the monkey, your role in the experience usally involves judging of some sort. And more often than not, poolside judging involves grading "cannonballs" and "Johnny Ass-crackers."
She recently told me to "give me a score up to 10%." I was confused. She continued, "Like 1%..2%..3%.. up to 10%!" I asked, "Do you mean you want me to score it on a scale of 1-10?" She dismissed me with the wave of a hand and said, "Yeah, that. Whatever."
The hand wave was a cold reminder of how far I've fallen in the grand scheme of things. I was once her favourite person ever. When she was a tyke, she'd make me carry her everywhere. As soon as she learned to dial a phone, she'd call me just to chat. Once, when she had an accident and split her lip, her mommy and grandparents couldn't get her to stop crying, she made them call me. I had to rush over. She stopped crying immediately, and took a half hour to share the harrowing tale with me. (Essentially it was "Ran too fast and fell.") Now I am someone to reach the top shelves and a smartalecky necessity when you want to swim when your parents aren't home.
I am getting wiser though. I have realized that the trick to dealing with the monkey's (so far undiagnosed) OCD is to keep giving her higher scores each time. Because there is no way the little loon is going to stop until she gets a perfect ten. And she needs a perfect ten in each different thing she does.
Yesterday's judging was of her "routine." Now, I bought that story when I had to judge step-dancing and hop hop routines, because she takes classes in those things. But, I am relatively sure that she has never taken a "swim randomly around the pool while narrating your own actions" class. Though if I asked, she'd swear that she has.
So, her routine was:
Step #1: Swim vigorously - almost angrily - across the pool.
Step #2: Swim back the same way - pausing briefly to shoot a dirty look at Peter to make sure he is watching.
I said, "Nicely done!"
She quickly shot back with an annoyed, "I'm not done."
She repeated steps #1 & #2 from two our three different spots until she was completely exhausted. Then she explained that she was getting out of the pool to "take a breather."
I don't know if you knew this, but it came as a complete surprise to me when I found out that "taking a breather" meant blowing down into your bathing suit top to make it puff out. Then repeatedly jumping back into the pool to make the suit stick to her body so that the trick would work better.
The first time she did it she yelled, "Suuuuuper woman!"
The second time she said, "Body strength!!" (Don't ask me.)
The third time she kind of forgot where she was going with it and said, "Suuuuper... gir--woman!!"
She eventually tired of this - or caught her breath - and went back to just running and jumping into the pool. Each time she'd yell "Cowabunga!" when she was in midair. However, one time she couldn't remember and ended up yelling "Columbia!" just before she hit the water. I cracked up completely.
Then her mommy arrived home and I was off the clock. I said "goodbye" and walked down the steps. The monkey's grandmother told her to thank me. So the squirt saucily said, "Ohhhh thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you, Peter." I laughed and started down the driveway. Then she ran down the steps and yelled to me again, "Peter, thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you. Oh thank you."
As I reached the bottom of the driveway, she came out their front door - after running, soaking wet, through the house - and she yelled "Byyyye, Peter. I looooooooooooooove you!" And then giggled.
When she becomes a teenager, we are all probably going to have to leave town.
1) I realized that I don't actually know any women from L.A.
2) I gently weeped about Nancy Silverman being ousted from Canadian Idol.
3) I wondered if I could do a g-rated vlog from my shower.
4) I decided that I wanted to post something today. Despite having no ideas. Which typically isn't a good plan...
Then I thought of something. I could tell you about my Hasselhoffian adventures at my uncle's pool yesterday.
And I will.
Those of you that work from home know full well that people who have never done so rarely ever see this as actually working. So, it came as no surprise to me when I saw the monkey's phone # on my caller display.
You may remember the monkey from such stories as "Clap!" and "Pecker, pecker, pecker!".
I answered the phone:
me: Hello.
monkey: Hello.
(Long pause.)
monkey: Do you know why I'm calling?
me: I can probably guess.
(Shorter pause.)
monkey: What are you dooooooooing?
me: I'm a bit busy.
monkey: When will you be done?
me: Like an hour.
monkey: Then you'll come watch me in the pool. (Her grandmother doesn't like lifeguarding.)
me: Yeah --
monkey: But, my mommy will be home in an hour!
me: She'll be home in two hours.
monkey: Oh. Good point.
me: You realize that the quicker I get back to work, the quicker I'll be done.
monkey: Bye!!!
*click*
Now, I should explain that "watching" the monkey in the pool is not just simple lifeguarding. It is truly an interactive experience. And there is no way that I'll be able to properly explain it to you here. You'd have to go through it yourself. And you'd come out of it profoundly changed. We'd be like two Vietnam vets when we met. Our eyes would tell everything that needed saying.
The experience begins as soon as you arrive. Her little feet come running out of the house. She tosses a towel over one deck chair. She flings her swim goggles on the deck. She runs to the side of the pool and dips her toe in. Then she starts giggling, rips off her glasses and tosses them on the deck table. You stop them before they slide off the other side.
She runs back towards the pool at top speed and...
Takes 15 minutes before she actually gets in.
Monkey lifeguarding takes patience, dear readers.
Eventually she gets in. Then she goes "Ooooh. Oooh. Ooooh!" and starts shivering. I ask if the water is cold. And she always says, "No" while looking at me like I'm completely insane. You would think that I would learn. You would think...
As is often the case with the monkey, your role in the experience usally involves judging of some sort. And more often than not, poolside judging involves grading "cannonballs" and "Johnny Ass-crackers."
She recently told me to "give me a score up to 10%." I was confused. She continued, "Like 1%..2%..3%.. up to 10%!" I asked, "Do you mean you want me to score it on a scale of 1-10?" She dismissed me with the wave of a hand and said, "Yeah, that. Whatever."
The hand wave was a cold reminder of how far I've fallen in the grand scheme of things. I was once her favourite person ever. When she was a tyke, she'd make me carry her everywhere. As soon as she learned to dial a phone, she'd call me just to chat. Once, when she had an accident and split her lip, her mommy and grandparents couldn't get her to stop crying, she made them call me. I had to rush over. She stopped crying immediately, and took a half hour to share the harrowing tale with me. (Essentially it was "Ran too fast and fell.") Now I am someone to reach the top shelves and a smartalecky necessity when you want to swim when your parents aren't home.
I am getting wiser though. I have realized that the trick to dealing with the monkey's (so far undiagnosed) OCD is to keep giving her higher scores each time. Because there is no way the little loon is going to stop until she gets a perfect ten. And she needs a perfect ten in each different thing she does.
Yesterday's judging was of her "routine." Now, I bought that story when I had to judge step-dancing and hop hop routines, because she takes classes in those things. But, I am relatively sure that she has never taken a "swim randomly around the pool while narrating your own actions" class. Though if I asked, she'd swear that she has.
So, her routine was:
Step #1: Swim vigorously - almost angrily - across the pool.
Step #2: Swim back the same way - pausing briefly to shoot a dirty look at Peter to make sure he is watching.
I said, "Nicely done!"
She quickly shot back with an annoyed, "I'm not done."
She repeated steps #1 & #2 from two our three different spots until she was completely exhausted. Then she explained that she was getting out of the pool to "take a breather."
I don't know if you knew this, but it came as a complete surprise to me when I found out that "taking a breather" meant blowing down into your bathing suit top to make it puff out. Then repeatedly jumping back into the pool to make the suit stick to her body so that the trick would work better.
The first time she did it she yelled, "Suuuuuper woman!"
The second time she said, "Body strength!!" (Don't ask me.)
The third time she kind of forgot where she was going with it and said, "Suuuuper... gir--woman!!"
She eventually tired of this - or caught her breath - and went back to just running and jumping into the pool. Each time she'd yell "Cowabunga!" when she was in midair. However, one time she couldn't remember and ended up yelling "Columbia!" just before she hit the water. I cracked up completely.
Then her mommy arrived home and I was off the clock. I said "goodbye" and walked down the steps. The monkey's grandmother told her to thank me. So the squirt saucily said, "Ohhhh thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you, Peter." I laughed and started down the driveway. Then she ran down the steps and yelled to me again, "Peter, thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you. Oh thank you."
As I reached the bottom of the driveway, she came out their front door - after running, soaking wet, through the house - and she yelled "Byyyye, Peter. I looooooooooooooove you!" And then giggled.
When she becomes a teenager, we are all probably going to have to leave town.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I totally threatened you all with it and here it is.
A few things to note:
1) For some reason I am wearing the world's largest t-shirt today.
2) I am not coming off heroin or suffering from some skin condition. I apparently scratch when nervous.
3) I drop one f-word.
4) I haven't mastered building up to a cool vlog ending.
"The Apartment" Quadrology.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
(If this is your first time reading these, and you feel like you may be one of the people being discussed... well, you probably are. But, I loves ya bastards, so it's cool.)
A few things to note:
1) For some reason I am wearing the world's largest t-shirt today.
2) I am not coming off heroin or suffering from some skin condition. I apparently scratch when nervous.
3) I drop one f-word.
4) I haven't mastered building up to a cool vlog ending.
"The Apartment" Quadrology.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
(If this is your first time reading these, and you feel like you may be one of the people being discussed... well, you probably are. But, I loves ya bastards, so it's cool.)
Monday, July 10, 2006
Closer.
I have a secret.
Jsdnsj Stnfnds ne fenkfen o finfendoop.
What?
Fine, I'll speak up.
*makes sure nobody is watching*
Jessica Stover is taking on Hollywood.
Actually, she is just using a very creative way to get her movie made.
And you could be part of it.
No, not you.
YOU.
Fine, you too.
I wouldn't normally mention this, but since all PDDC readers are so intelligent (and attractive) I figured it was safe.
All you have to do is follow this link and all will be unveiled to you.
Go now.
Don't believe me? Just ask Westside Kef or Tom Bridge or "The Greatest Blog Ever Written" or Captain's Log.
See?
Now this message will self-destruct.
*fzzzzzzzzzzzt... pop*
Well, that was anti-climactic.
I have a secret.
Jsdnsj Stnfnds ne fenkfen o finfendoop.
What?
Fine, I'll speak up.
*makes sure nobody is watching*
Jessica Stover is taking on Hollywood.
Actually, she is just using a very creative way to get her movie made.
And you could be part of it.
No, not you.
YOU.
Fine, you too.
I wouldn't normally mention this, but since all PDDC readers are so intelligent (and attractive) I figured it was safe.
All you have to do is follow this link and all will be unveiled to you.
Go now.
Don't believe me? Just ask Westside Kef or Tom Bridge or "The Greatest Blog Ever Written" or Captain's Log.
See?
Now this message will self-destruct.
*fzzzzzzzzzzzt... pop*
Well, that was anti-climactic.
[Peter note: This post falls under two categories. 1) Seemed like a good idea at the time. 2) Was MUCH funnier in my head. But, PDDC is all about not censoring yourself, so...]By now many of you have seen MY DATE WITH DREW. It is the charming and uplifting story of a common schlub and his quest for a "date" with Drew Barrymore. I don't want to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet, but suffice it to say that it was an inspirational story.
They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery - it narrowly edged out "I like your bum, where you from?" So, this very post is my humble homage to MY DATE WITH DREW. This too is a story of one man's quest to fulfill a dream from his youth. It is...
MY MAKE-OUT SESSION INCLUDING UNDER THE SHIRT BUT OVER THE BRA ACTION WITH TIFFANI THIESSEN
(I am not sure what happened to the "Amber" either.)
Our tale begins in the care-free days of 1989. A show that was about to change to history of television began airing.
When I wake up in the morning
And the alarm gives out a warning
Once I heard these words, I knew that nothing would ever be the same. 'Saved by the Bell' had arrived.
We were introduced to Zach Morris, with all his scams and a cellphone bigger than a Buick. We were introduced to Mr. Belding's laugh. We introduced the term "Screech" to our lexicon.
And we were introduced to a young Tiffani-Amber Thiessen.
There was no going back.
Tiffani later showed up on 'Beverly Hills 90210.'
She was introduced to Luke Perry's forehead, which was later used as a landing strip for the Concorde. She was introduced the David Silver's music career. And she was introduced to Joe E. Tata. Still my favourite name in the history of show business.
Back to my quest...
The hairy dude from "My Date With Drew" was equipped with $1000, a video camera and a "6 Degrees of Separation..." plan. I am going to just use a blog and a "1 Degree of Separation..."plan. Yes, I am THAT badass.
Through some research, I've found out that Screech (who is trying to get us to call him Dustin Diamond now) has a website where he is trying to save his house, or some such. I decided that I would contact him first, in my attempt to swap spits with Tiffani Thiessen.
Screech --
Good luck with the whole house thing, homey.
But, I have a quest of my own. Have you seen MY DATE WITH DREW? Well, I am working on a project too, it is called:
MY MAKE-OUT SESSION INCLUDING UNDER THE SHIRT BUT OVER THE BRA ACTION WITH TIFFANI THIESSEN
I figured that since you dated that Violet girl -- is it just me or did she look like Tori Spelling? -- you would be willing to help a dude out.
Oh man, remember when Jessie got hooked on caffeine pills? That was wild, eh?
Anyway, any help you could give me in getting a chance to kiss Tiffani and touch her goodies a bit, would be just super.
Thanks!
Peter
Hmmmm... speaking of Tori Spelling, she has a website too. Ooooh and a "contact me" button:
Hi Tori --
How are you?
Have you seen MY DATE WITH DREW? Well, I'm doing something similar. It is called:
MY MAKE-OUT SESSION INCLUDING UNDER THE SHIRT BUT OVER THE BRA ACTION WITH TIFFANI THIESSEN
I saw what you and David Silver went through, so I know that you understand true love. And I saw how you didn't judge him after that skanky music producer gave him crabs. That was awesome of you.
It would also be awesome if you could help me stick my tongue down Tiffani Thiessen's throat a little.
Cool?
Thanks!
Peter
I really have a good feeling about how this is going.
AND I just found out that Tiffani's production company has a website. And you can contact them through it! Score!
Hi Tiffani -
Big fan, big fan.
Have you seen MY DATE WITH DREW?
Well, I too have a quest. It is:
MY MAKE-OUT SESSION INCLUDING UNDER THE SHIRT BUT OVER THE BRA ACTION WITH TIFFANI
THIESSEN
Now, I know this may seem a bit out of the blue, but hear me out.
Firstly, I am a great kisser. So, I have that going for me, which is nice. Plus I have big hands and nimble fingers. So, really it's win-win.
I realize that you are married now. But, do you really want to be with a guy who gets all bent out of shape just because you suck a little face and get fondled by a stranger from the internet? Come on. Where is the trust?
Anyway, I appreciate your consideration. I also really like the taste of Colgate winterfresh toothpaste. Just so you know.
Take care!
Peter
So, my mails have been sent. I guess I'll just sit back and wait for her to send me a date and location.
This, my friends, is what Al Gore had in mind when he created the internet.
*high five*
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Guys, what the hell? I thought that we had an agreement.
For as long as I can remember, there have been a couple of you lepisma saccharina hanging around. But, as long as you stayed out of my way, I didn't crack out the borax and get rid of you.
I'd turn on my bathroom light and you would either freeze exactly where you were - as if I couldn't see you there by the toilet brush holder - or scamper towards some crack or crevice. It worked well.
However, lately you've been taking runs at my feet.
I don't know what has happened that has left you feeling so emboldened. Maybe you were throwing back a few beers (Coors Light - The Silverfish Bullet?) with your homies. Or perhaps you were just trying to impress some hot female silverfish.
I can appreciate those things, but you really should remember a couple of facts; 1) you are a tiny, wingless insect and 2) I have size 12 feet.
Are you picking up what I'm putting down here?
You fellas should not let your mouths write checks that your butts can't cash.
Do you even have mouths? Or butts for that matter...?
Just stay the fuck out of my way!
Love,
Peter
For as long as I can remember, there have been a couple of you lepisma saccharina hanging around. But, as long as you stayed out of my way, I didn't crack out the borax and get rid of you.
I'd turn on my bathroom light and you would either freeze exactly where you were - as if I couldn't see you there by the toilet brush holder - or scamper towards some crack or crevice. It worked well.
However, lately you've been taking runs at my feet.
I don't know what has happened that has left you feeling so emboldened. Maybe you were throwing back a few beers (Coors Light - The Silverfish Bullet?) with your homies. Or perhaps you were just trying to impress some hot female silverfish.
I can appreciate those things, but you really should remember a couple of facts; 1) you are a tiny, wingless insect and 2) I have size 12 feet.
Are you picking up what I'm putting down here?
You fellas should not let your mouths write checks that your butts can't cash.
Do you even have mouths? Or butts for that matter...?
Just stay the fuck out of my way!
Love,
Peter
Friday, July 07, 2006
Was life before YouTube really living?
I found Eva's Canadian Idol performance from the first week of the top 22.
I found Eva's Canadian Idol performance from the first week of the top 22.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Hi.You may have noticed that I haven't posted much lately. ACN kept me very busy and we had a ton of fun. I also learned some very important things about what ACN finds funny. In no particular order, here they are:
1) When Uncle Pete stubs his toe.
2) When Uncle Pete stubs his other toe.
3) Being reminded of the time Uncle Pete completely threw his back out after Xmas (while ACN-wrangling!) This might be the funniest thing ever, according to ACN.
4) When Uncle Pete pretends he is mad and grrrrrrrrrs.
5) When Uncle Pete steps on Rice Krispies that ACN throws on the floor.
6) When Uncle Pete gives ET a spanking for being bad.
7) Telling Uncle Pete that she wants him to pick her up out of her bed - that is only used for playing, never for sleeping - and when he has her in his arms, shaking her head vigourously and giggling until he puts her back in the bed.
8) Making Uncle Pete take her to the bathroom, and then giggling when they get there and he asks if she really had to go or if she was playing a trick.
9) Repeating #8 five minutes later.
10) The question, "Did that (Rice) Krispie just fall out of your bum?"
**********
Do you remember when I talked about my triumphant stage debut in "ET & Me?"
Well, apparently the song we sung in it was originally done by The Chipmunks.
A dude named Jared found the post and commented that he remembered the song too.
Here is what he remembers:
ET come vist me
And if you get lonely
Just phone home
ET come and visit me
I'll make you so happy
you'll never want to leave...
Since you have the answer to power
You can do my homework in an hour
And then we can play for the rest of the day
Later, Darth Vader, whatever you say...
But I'm not just thinking of me
You can (save?) the whole planet ET
If you come and visit I promise you this
Together we'll prove that we really exist
Oh my... I am having flashbacks. (Though I think the line was "Raiders, Darth Vader, whatever you say...") I can remember taking our bows while holding hands with a girl who was telling everyone we'd get married when we grew up and a dude. This was not where an 11 (or so?) year old boy wanted to be.
This song is cracking me up - then making me feel shame - and then cracking me up again.
*********
Don't forget that today is CC day in NYC.
**********
No Canadian Idol recap this week. (Why does typing that make me feel like a 14 year old girl? I hate you! This is SO unfair! *door slam*)
I will say that I am still enjoying the poop out of Nancy Silverman.
Why don't they have her performances on youtube yet? Speaking of...
**********
For no real reason, Eddie Murphy!
Yes, that is Rick James.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Remember how I was pimping Caprice Crane's novel before I even read it? Yes, I am skilled like that. Well, now I have read it. And it is all kinds of the awesome.This is especially remarkable because A) I don't like to read books. They usually involve all kinds of, like, words and junk. And 2) I really don't like to read anything that I didn't write.
Well, now you get to chance to see what all the hype is about. Caprice will be doing a reading/signing!! Eeeeep!
Where: Chelsea Barnes and Noble, 675 6th Ave., NYC (btw. 21st & 22nd St.)
When: Thursday, July 6th, 7:00 P.M. (7 Sharp if you wanna hear her read. Peter note: And you DO want to hear her read.)
Why: Because this is your chance to stop by, let Caprice scribble in your copy of the book, and ponder the deeper themes of the book including: when it’s acceptable for a waitress to dump blue cheese dressing in a customer's hair, how to avoid awkwardness when you’re backsliding with your ex-girlfriend/boyfriend (lock the door), and what a guy really means when he offers to help a pretty girl with her groceries.
Please come and bring some friends! There’s nothing sadder than a lonely author, clutching a sharpie, sitting behind a table piled high with crisp, fresh copies of her new novel, asking the store manager, “Did they print the right date on the poster?”
CBS.com has a cool interview with Caprice. It's over on the right side. (The reviewer sounds like a bitter failed novelist herself, but that happens.)
Oh, I nearly forgot, if you do attend the signing, and mention my name, Caprice will be 14% nicer to you than she will be to other people. I was shooting for 20%, but negotiations... You know how it is.
So, go, listen, buy, get autograph (I didn't get one!), read, enjoy, spread the word, etc.
Plus, if you don't attend, then the terrorists win. I don't want to put any extra pressure on you though. It is totally up to you if you want to inexplicably miss this amazing event. But, can I ask you one simple question? Why do you hate freedom so much?
Don't expect a lot of updating over the next few days.
Firstly, I'll be ACN wrangling Monday - Wednesday.
Secondly, my trusty old PC - that has been giving me pop-ups daily that say my harddrive is corrupt and unreadable - is now beginning to smell like burning. I'm no techie, but I'm guessing that's not good.
I am going to try to save a couple of mini-posts as drafts that I can put up here and there.
I've been meaning to do this for a while, but I'd like to thank Geoffrey for the super sexy header on this site. He made something cool from the vaguest of information from me. Seriously. So, if you are in the market for super sexy headers...
Firstly, I'll be ACN wrangling Monday - Wednesday.
Secondly, my trusty old PC - that has been giving me pop-ups daily that say my harddrive is corrupt and unreadable - is now beginning to smell like burning. I'm no techie, but I'm guessing that's not good.
I am going to try to save a couple of mini-posts as drafts that I can put up here and there.
I've been meaning to do this for a while, but I'd like to thank Geoffrey for the super sexy header on this site. He made something cool from the vaguest of information from me. Seriously. So, if you are in the market for super sexy headers...